Potter's Wheel
by esama
Summary: Harry has been thinking and Voldemort gets to be the first to hear the results. Harry-decides-to-quit-story, with some OOCness and Dumbledore, Snape and Molly bashing. Deathly Hallows spoilers.


**Potter's Wheel**

Voldemort hadn't quite gotten into terms with his sudden surroundings, when he heard a soft and rather pleasant voice speak from behind him, saying, "I've been thinking about Death," in the sort of tone one used when talking about politics and distant relatives whom they had not met in years and years.

He whirled around, taking his eyes away from the wooden shelves filled with clay dishes and pots and cups and plates and whatnot, and turning his eyes instead to many tables covered in half-finished ceramics. There, in the middle of it, sat his young nemesis, his fate-chosen enemy, wearing an apron, hands covered in stains all the way up to his bare shoulders, with smudge of half dried clay on his nose and trailing down his cheek

"It's a bit of an occupational hazard, for a Hero, I think," Potter said, foot absently pressing on a pedal that kept his potter's wheel spinning, hands idly shaping the light clay this way and that. "Well, of course it depends on what sort of story you're reading, but no story about hero is any good one if everyone lives happily ever after - ergo, someone has to die."

"Potter," Voldemort snarled, hiding his confusion. He had no idea how he had gotten into this, this… this hovel, and he didn't much like it. And having Harry Potter of all people talking to him with such reasonable and _idle_ tones. No one spoke around him in reasonable and idle tones. Especially in such _friendly_ and _pleasant_ manner. "Where am I, what is this?"

"This is my mind. I discovered it just about month ago," the boy answered without looking up. "You wouldn't _believe_ the mess Snape made of this place. I'm still not even quarter done repairing the mess he and Dumbledore made, but it's starting to look more habitable."

"It's a _hovel. _Your mind is a_ hovel_," Voldemort said mockingly, but he was intrigued despite himself, as he took the room in with more interest. The pottery looked rather new - and there were lot that were freshly made and by the looks of it waiting to be baked. Reformed and reworked thoughts and memories, he realised, and was rather impressed with his enemy. Not many Occlumens' or Legilimens' got to the point of having such manifestations of their minds. Most didn't have the imagination.

"Then it suits me perfectly. Let me guess, yours is a torture chamber or library or something," the boy answered amusedly.

"A jewel and stone collection, actually," the Dark Lord answered, casting him a glance. "What's that?" he asked, nodding at the strand of mind being formed under Potter's muddy fingers.

"This?" the boy leaned back a little, keeping his fingers gently on the spinning clay to keep its form. "Hard to say. It's either my sense of humour or my memories of pranks. I'll know once it's finished," he mused, and looked up to him. "If you want the more important material - weak points, bad memories, you know, sore spots and stuff like that - they would be over there," he pointed helpfully towards a kiln, that breathed almost menacing heat into the room.

"Ah," Voldemort mused, peering into the red hot depths through a windowed door. There were several candle holders, bottles, goblets, odd looking decorative orbs and so forth, sitting comfortably in the inhuman heat that would surely burn him if he so much as tried to open the door. "Well done," he grudgingly congratulated. As defensive methods went, it was simple but elegant. "It makes me wonder, though. Snape reported your abysmal talent in Occlumency. So, how…"

"Snape should've also reported his abysmal talent in teaching it," Harry answered. "Few books and chat with an actual Occlumens sorted the whole matter for me better than he ever could. Though, then again, I do believe he was never actually trying to _teach_ me as much as he wanted to force me to learn. It was rather like trying to teach someone tap dancing by shooting a machine gun at their feet."

"Hm," the Dark Lord hummed. He had gotten glimpses of Snape's teaching methods and had to admit that the boy was probably right. "How did you manage this?" he asked, pointing at himself. Then, after a moment of thought, he looked down to himself, to find that he wasn't like he thought he'd be. His hands were normal toned, and there was lock of dark hair falling to his eyes. Running hand over his face he discovered that he had a nose too. He almost asked the boy how he had managed _that_ but didn't want to repeat himself. "The last time I got into your mind was hardly pleasant for either of us."

"Because I was fighting and you were forcing it," the boy answered, and stopped his pedalling. The vase spun to a halt, and the boy looked at it in consideration. It was constructed of three odd balls and looked rather like old Japanese sake bottle. "Invitation makes things easier. Also, there's the nice and helpful little door," Potter waved absently somewhere behind Voldemort before taking the vase. He frowned at it, and right before their eyes the vase baked and then promptly painted itself in horrible mixture of Gryffindor red and yellow and every shade between neon green and the most violent pink one could imagine. "There," the boy said with satisfaction, and put the vase to the shelf.

Voldemort glanced behind him, to see that there was indeed a door in the room, a great gothic monstrosity with great bronze letters nailed to it spelling out the name _VOLDEMORT_, and smaller letters underneath it writing _Tom Marvolo Riddle, aka You-Know-Who, aka He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, aka That Bastard_. Finally, bottom line read_ Dark Wizard, Necromancer, Dark Lord_, rather like a ist of titles.

"I'm not a Necromancer," he said, blinking, and wondering what it told about him that Potter had managed to make a _door_ between their two minds, and he hadn't noticed.

"Self-necromancer. Rising yourself from the dead is kind of like necromancy anyway," the boy behind him said, taking another ruined piece of pottery from the shelf, and reducing it into raw, fresh clay in his hands. While kneading some water into the material, he sat back down again. "I haven't gone in, if that's what you're worried. I did send you a gift. Or, well, I returned _your gift._"

"Excuse me?" the Dark Lord asked, turning to the boy.

"There was a bit of you in me. I put it into a kettle and placed it outside the door," the boy answered and slammed the clay of memories down to the wheel with a resounding smack. He tested it, and seemed satisfied about how firmly it was sitting on the wheel. "Residue of the killing curse and what not - stuff I don't really need. I'm keeping the soul bit, though."

"The _what_?" Voldemort asked, eyes widening.

"Ah, yes, you don't know. Well," Potter frowned, and then bent down to pick something from the floor - a pale, red eyed child that had been playing with a ceramic toy at his feet, hidden by the bulk of the wheel. The child, a boy, was dressed in muggle jumper and had a solemn expression on his face as he rattled his toy at the Dark Lord.

Potter smiled. "Voldemort, meet your seventh Horcrux. Or sixth. I'm not quite sure about the number, as I'm still kind of uncertain how many you made before you tried to kill me," he said, supporting the child against his hip with one arm in the casual manner, rather like an experienced father would've. "Dumbledore had a theory about it. When you attacked me, you had already mutilated your soul to the point that it was sort of unravelling - and so the killing curse gave me a bit more than a cut."

"It's not possible," Voldemort said, not quite sure how he was calm. He ought to be raving, ranting, telling Potter he was an idiot and liar and arrogant and going to die. Instead he stared at the pale albino child whose white curls had oddly neutral cuteness about them, and felt unreal. Everything felt unreal.

"Well, it wasn't easy, I'll tell you that," Potter agreed, smiling at the albino child and taking out a handkerchief to carefully clean a tiny smudge of clay from the boy's cheek. "You wouldn't even believe how mutilated he was when I found him underneath the table. You left him in bad state - and Snape certainly did him no favourites with his bombardment on my fifth year. But I managed to fix him up with some of my less important childhood memories, and some knowledge I have about you."

Voldemort didn't know whether to be horrified or in odd way pleased to see Potter taking such care of the piece of him. In the end, he ended up being highly disturbed. "If you're keeping that, what did you return me?"

"Mostly the nightmares about you killing my mum," the boy said. "And the curse headaches. There's some magic in them that I think you can unravel and make use off, but with me they just steal my sleep."

"Ah," Voldemort murmured, and then stepped forward to examine the Horcrux child more closely. Merlin, but Potter had made the child almost beautiful. It was like pale doll, or a painting, or… something. "Why would you want to keep it?" he asked, confused.

"He's cute," Potter answered, and the boy rattled the ceramic toy. "And after all the work I put into him, I don't feel like it going to waste," he added, and looked up to Voldemort, who was now standing almost next to him. "And while _I_ have him, you have good reason not to kill me."

"What?" Voldemort snapped, and then realised. Potter had his _Horcrux_ in his arms. Potter had his _Horcrux_ in his _mind_. Potter _was_ his Horcrux. "Well," he muttered, shocked and a little impressed with himself. He had accidentally made a human Horcrux. "Well."

"Also, I've gotten used to the abilities," the boy added nonchalantly, and let the boy down again. The Horcrux remained standing beside him for a moment, leaning to his thigh, before it fell to sit on the floor where it absently shook the rattling toy. "But that's not why I called you here."

"You had a reason?" Voldemort asked, wondering why he wasn't feeling _more_.

"Well, yes. I told you," Potter said, and then started pedalling his wheel again, his hands starting to almost absently mould the strand of memories and thoughts into a recognisable shape. A tea cup, perhaps. "I have been thinking about death."

"So have no doubt many others," Voldemort said, and after some consideration he leaned to the edge of table almost filled with recently made ceramics. "How does this concern me?"

"Well, as you are the one who wants to kill me, I think it concerns you in the most basic of ways," Potter said, shaking his head and moistening his hands in a bowl of water. "You want to kill me. People want me to kill you. The problem with this is the fact that I don't want to die."

"So I should do it instead to make things easier for you?" Voldemort asked cuttingly.

"Well, actually, no. See, that would kill me," the boy said. "Well, not immediately, but eventually. Either that, or I would have to kill Crux."

"…Crux?"

"Crux," the Boy Who Lived agreed, nodding down to the pale child. "Horcrux kind of knots up the tongue and Hor sounded just weird. So, Crux," he shook his head, waving the matter aside. "Anyway, here's the bottom line. The crux of the matter, in fact. If you kill me, I die, obviously, and that wouldn't be pleasant. If I killed you, you would come into me, take over Crux and eventually me, and then I would die. Again, rather unpleasant. I tear up my own soul to kill Crux, I kill _you_, and then I would probably go insane, start killing people and end up getting killed by the next new and shiny hero. All in all, not particularly pleasant. And like said, I don't want to kill Crux."

"You didn't actually say that," Voldemort said, glancing at the pale child.

"Well, I still don't. I like him. He's pleasantly quiet company," Potter said.

Voldemort considered this for a moment and then frowned. "Harry," he said slowly. "Have you gone mad?"

"Hm. I might've, but I think it goes more along the lines that I was sane before, then I was _forced_ to be different type of sane. Dumbledore and Snape and Legilimency and all that. Some compulsions too, if I got it right," the young wizard waved his hand absently at the matter. "Except it wasn't as much sane as it was broken to the point where I was to their tastes. Now," he placed his hand on the soon to be cup again. "Now I'm fixing the damage and finding that my mind doesn't seem to work the way it does. Or it _shouldn't_."

"… ah," Voldemort frowned, and immediately understood. He had always wondered how and why the boy was the way he was. Well, not a boy anymore, a young man. Harry had, from the second meeting, seemed rather off to him. Way too honourable and righteous to be an eleven year old child. Kids of his age were greedy and arrogant and boastful and needy - they weren't _righteous._ Brave, that he could admit, foolhardy, sure, sometimes even smart…

But just and fair and righteous and perfectly good and honest and kind and concerned about the well being of people who seemed to hate you most of the time and willing to very nearly die for them? Hell no.

"How many… compulsions did you find, exactly?" the Dark Lord asked curiously.

"Hm? Oh, some dozen, most of them failed or were suppressed under each other," Potter answered, motioning towards a waste basket near by. Curious, the Dark Lord stepped closer to see broken trinkets there. A golden ball that had once been a snitch, a broken crystal goblet, box of what looked like half rotten pastries, a quill, three pieces of parchment, box of muggle candies…

"What kind of compulsion were they?" the Dark Lord asked while turning the basked upside down to the floor and then examining the trinkets curiously.

"Hm. There were few kinds," Potter said without looking at him, even as Voldemort sat to the floor in manner very unsuitable for a Dark Lord. Something about potters mind was making not to care about posture, though. "If you're interested you can pick one and tell you what it was," the boy offered.

"This one?" Voldemort asked, taking the glass goblet. It was magnificent, very well made with incredibly complicated patterns along the outer side, reflecting millions of shades of colours. It was broken, with great chunk of it missing, but despite it still retained its splendour.

"The Goblet of Fire contract," Potter answered. "I was kind of surprised to find it, I didn't actually think there was a magically binding contract, but there was. It makes sense in hindsight, though, I mean… when I was entered to that contract, I _ought_ to have not competed. Or at least I could've turned up in the events, in the tasks, and conceded a defeat, tell them I couldn't do it, accepted the low score and walked away. But instead I actually went and tried my best to win, and I didn't even think of alternatives."

"I see," the Dark Lord mused, eying the goblet. No wonder it was so well made. There was probably no person alive who could unravel the intricate spell work of the Goblet of Fire - not only because it was difficult, but because so many people had contributed over the centuries, adding layers and layers on top of one another.

"Why did you use the Triwizard anyway?" the boy asked, now sounding curious. "I've been trying to figure that out, and it makes no sense. Why not just have Crouch hand me a Portkey sometime after my first class with him, and be done with it?"

Voldemort snorted, and shook his head. "You know nothing of rituals, do you?" he asked, and Potter merely gave him a curious look. "Rituals are all about challenges, tasks and accomplishments. All magic is, in fact. Even normal magic is more powerful if you go through some trouble to actually get it - if you need to hunt down a book for week or so and then fight someone over it, it's more likely that you will learn the spells in the book quicker and be better at them, than if you had been handed the book the moment you wanted it. When magic is _earned_ it's stronger."

He turned back to the goblet. "I could've gotten you earlier, true, but the chances of the potion succeeding would've been lesser. Because you went through the tournament and competed against other wizards, your magic was empowered by your accomplishments, your blood, more than my father's bone or even Wormtail's flesh, gave me power."

"Oh," the boy mused, looking thoughtful. "I never thought of that. What about the dates? Like Halloween. You always do something on Halloween and Spring. You attacked my parents on Halloween, released the troll on Halloween, opened the chamber of secrets on Halloween… and then there's spring. Somehow I always end up meeting with you in spring."

"Think about it half a moment, you idiot," the Dark Lord said flatly. "Why do you _think_?"

The younger wizard blinked and then hummed. "Oh," he mused. "I guess days have power too then. You really like your rituals, huh?"

"They are the strongest magic there is," the Dark Lord agreed, and took another bit of rubbish. "I doubt I even need to ask about this one," he mused, shaking the tin box of hard muggle candies. "Dumbledore?" he asked anyway.

"From my first year on all the way through the sixth," Potter nodded with agreement. "Breadcrumbs mostly, leading me towards this way and that and make me more likely to do this and that. Make me very inclined to poke my nose into things and rush into trouble at top speed. That sort of thing."

"And to recklessly risk your life for others for no good reason," the Dark Lord mused, opening the box. There were good dozen different types of candies inside, probably each one being one small compulsion added along the way.

"Oh, there was a good reason, usually," the young man said, shaking his head. "But without the compulsions, I probably would've much rather called the Aurors than do stuff like going down to fight you for the Philosopher's Stone by my self. Oh yes, and there is also compulsions there to keep me from finding out stuff. Did you know, I didn't know what Aurors were until my fourth year? Even now a first year Hogwarts student from muggle family probably knows more about magical world than I do because I've never had any inclination to find out."

"Your talent in obliviousness is duly noted," Voldemort said, feeling a bit disturbed. Dumbledore had been a sneaky old bastard, alright. But then, he had always known that. "Is this the Hogwarts acceptance letter?" he asked with surprise as he took one of the parchments.

"Hmm," Harry nodded, scowling. "Every muggleborn and their family is hit with that one. Do you know what separates Hogwarts from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang - and just about all other magical school in the whole wide world? Or did, before you started mucking about with the system."

"The acceptance rate of muggleborn students," Voldemort answered, rather flatly. He had read the statistics himself, when Hogwarts rules had been revamped. He hadn't given it much thought, before now.

"Not a single refusal in thousand years. Not one muggleborn student says that, no, I'd rather go to Eton, thank you very much," Harry snorted, shaking his head.

The Dark Lord shook his head in agreement. Great part of Hogwarts reputation was the amount of students it accepted each year. Now he knew how that had been maintained so well over the years. "What about this one?" he asked, taking out a normal looking water goblet, which looked like it could've came from Hogwarts great hall. "Let me guess, some sort of potion in your daily pumpkin juice.

Surprisingly enough, the goblet made Potter smile. "Madam Pomfrey feeding me nutrient potions secretly," he said, and shrugged his shoulders. "And small compulsion to encourage me to eat better."

"Hm. Nice of her," Voldemort mused, wondering if he was disappointed or pleasantly surprised. He set the goblet aside, and took a quill instead. It was ink black, oddly sinister and looked rather worn. It was also snapped from the middle, and ink was oozing out from the middle. "How about this one?"

"That's myriad of three separate compulsions. First is a standard Hogwarts compulsion towards muggleborn students," Potter said, and leaned back to examine the cup he was making. "It discourages the student against bringing muggle writing utensils into the castle."

"What? Really?" Voldemort asked, a bit surprised. Having been raised a muggle, he knew well how much more convenient pencils and ballpoint pens were. It made him suddenly wonder why he had never bothered to bring any with him to Hogwarts, despite all the ruddy trouble he had had with quill and ink bottles thorough his first year.

"Yeah. That and muggle books, muggle clothing, muggle… well, mostly everything that has anything to do with learning," Harry agreed. "Hogwarts doesn't like new things, I gathered."

"I wouldn't be surprised if you were right," the Dark Lord murmured, frowning. "And the other two parts?"

"Hermione's mild compulsion from my third year I think. She was trying to encourage me to read and study a bit better," Potter answered, shaking his head. "It failed - both with me and with Ron," he said, while starting to make a handle for the tea cup from left-over clay. "And the last part was Madam Umbridge's compulsion with a blood quill," he said, smearing some water to the back of his right hand to show written scars there. "Everyone who used the quill never said a thing about it to a teacher or their parents, I think."

"Surprisingly perceptive of her," the Dark Lord mused, little impressed, and was given a flat look in answer. He coughed, glancing down to Crux who was now chewing on bit of moist clay. "The Horcrux is eating your memories," Voldemort pointed out, amused.

Harry glanced down, and then nudged the boy admonishingly with his foot, before snatching the clay from his hands. Crux looked up to him with wide, soulful red eyes and with a sigh potter reached out to take another bit of clay. He formed what looked like a lollipop out of it, instantly baked it, glazed it with some memory - probably of a flavour, Voldemort mused - and then handed it to the boy. "Here, have some chocolate," the Boy Who Lived said, and the Horcrux accepted the memory lollipop happily.

"You'll make a wonderful father some day," Voldemort said, somewhat mockingly. "If you live that long."

"Yes," Potter agreed. "Do you want to talk about that now, or do you want to go through my compulsions first?" he asked, though he didn't seem much annoyed by the distraction.

"You can give me a highlights of the rest of them, and we can go back to the bit about death."

Potter nodded, and glanced down. There was still two bits of parchment, a broken snitch and box of rotten pastries left. "The parchments aren't that important - one is from Dumbledore's Army I signed that one willingly, and the other was the ministry summons to my trial two years ago," he said, and frowned at the two remaining items. "The pastries are a love potion Molly Weasley has been feeding me for about three years now."

"Oh?" Voldemort asked, surprised. "Molly Weasley? Really? Didn't know she had it in her."

"Oh, she had it in her all right. I doubt I've ever noticed it if I hadn't been going through this place," Harry answered, scowling. "She was pretty cunning about it, stretching the potion over months in small doses, so the effect was gradual. Now that I've gotten rid of it, though, it's a bit obvious. Makes me feel a little sorry for poor Ginny Weasley - unless she was in on it, of course…"

"Lovely. Your life is a practical soap opera, Harry," Voldemort mused, and took the broken snitch. "And this thing?" he asked, turning it in his hand. It looked like someone had taken a hammer down to it a few hundred times.

"Dumbledore's last grand scheme," the Boy Who Lived answer. "Or maybe his whole scheme. In his designs I was supposed to find your Horcruxes, destroy them, then get killed by you so that you'd kill Crux. And then I was apparently supposed to come back from the death by some quirk of magic he was convinced would work to my advantage, or some fucked up stuff like that like that."

"Nice of him," Voldemort murmured, and frowned. "Out of curiosity, _have_ you destroyed my Horcruxes?" he asked with fairly good attempt at nonchalance. He knew the boy was after them, had known for a while, and knew that some of them had gone missing. The locket, the cup, the book, the ring…

"I'm still here, Crux is still here, so no," Harry answered. "Plus there is Nagini. And probably some others I don't know about and have no way to find."

"Oh," the Dark Lord said, and sighed with relief. "Alright then." With his curiosity satisfied about what sort of manipulations the hero and saviour of wizarding world had been put under, he gathered the compulsions, shoved them back into the bin, and stood up. "So, what did you want to talk about death?"

"Mostly that I don't want to do it, just yet. Die, I mean," Potter answered, attaching the handle to the tea cup and after some minute adjustment, he baked it too. It turned into porcelain, somehow. "I'm seventeen years old, I haven't had a decent snog in my life that didn't involve love potions, I haven't _shagged_ in my life, hell I haven't even gotten _drunk_. Not even once," he looked up. "I haven't visited another countries, and I'd really like to see a tropical beach even if just once. I haven't learned another language - Parseltongue doesn't count. I haven't learned to play musical instrument…"

"Okay, okay, I get your point," Voldemort said, a bit irritated. "Your life sucks and I would give you my most hearty condolences, but once you've lived about decade as _mist_ and parasitic mutation growing in the back of people's heads, then I might listen," he added, folding his arms and frowning. "What do you want me to do about it?"

"Well, not killing me would be a nice start," the younger wizard said, raising his eyebrows.

Voldemort raised his eyebrow in return. "And you think you'll do the same?" he asked, scathingly. "Could you, really? Heroics are the base code of your whole being, Harry. If I would stop actively hunting you down - which I very much doubt I will - you'd do the same, and just go on your life, while I conquer magical Britain, great part of Europe and then extend to Americas and possibly Australia and Africa? You could really sit back, and do nothing?" He snorted. "I rather doubt it. If I let down my guard you'll probably find a flaming sword somewhere, and cut my head off with it."

"Actually, I probably could," Harry answered, sounding a little offended. "Heroics are not the base code of my being. That's cowardice and witty humour, everything else was Dumbledore's additions," he said, now defensive. "And there's nothing wrong with being a coward," he added, when the Dark Lord opened his mouth. "Being a coward keeps you alive. Hell, you're the greatest coward in all of magical world, and look at you!"

"Excuse me?" Voldemort asked, straightening his back.

"Oh, come on. I've never even heard of anyone as afraid of dying as you are," the younger wizard snorted, waving his dirty hand at him. "You're coward of gigantic proportions. You ought to be commended for it, actually."

"Bugger off," Voldemort muttered at him. "So, you think you really could do nothing. I just leave you alone, you take off some where, end of story?"

"Sure, why not?" Harry asked.

"And the people I kill, the nations I conquer, horrible terrible things I'll do?"

"What about them?"

"You don't care? I could kill all your friends, you know."

"Well, I've already let most of them know that whatever happens, the magical world can piss off as far as I'm concerned, and suggested that they might find nice villages and towns elsewhere to live in - preferably in countries with good governments and nice big armies. Like United States. I'd like to see you conquer that place, with defence force of Merlin only knows how many warlocks against you. Or Russia. Heh, China too. You'd get your ass soundly handed to do you if you even _thought_ of going for Asia." Potter grinned and then got back to the original line of thought. "Anyway, if they stay here, that's their problem."

"Hm," Voldemort hummed, stroking his chin. He was a bit surprised to find that he had a goatee, but it wasn't really important. The concept of all his enemies leaving wasn't a bad one. Though he would've preferred to just kill them all himself, them deserting off to other countries would solve great many problems. "And if I don't agree to let you go?" he asked curiously. "Let's say, just for the sake of the argument, that you headed of to the States, and I came after you to kill you, with the entire force of my dark army behind me."

"Well, I suppose I would have to enlist in the magical military and see where that would go," Potter answered, frowning. "Most likely I would just report your presence to the right authorities, some local version of Aurors or something, move on somewhere else and let them do what they want with you."

"Oh? No standing up to fight me yourself? Really?" Voldemort asked, surprised and pleased. "You'd rather throw some other people at me and let them be killed in your place?"

"Well… yes. It's their _job_, they get _paid_ to do it," Harry answered, frowning. "I'm seventeen years old for fuck's sake. Why do _I_ have to fight a terrorist organisation when we ought to have law enforcement people _for_ that sort of stuff? Who decided that I should - wait, never mind," he said, shaking his head. "Anyway, it's their job to protect civilians from people that want to kill them. Among other things. That's at least how it ought to be. Isn't that why they decided on the job in the first place, to help people, catch bag guys, stuff like that?"

"Hm. True," Voldemort mused. That had been the job of Aurors too, once. Then Fudge had fudged everything up. Voldemort made a mental point to see to that the matter was rectified. "It's very strange hearing this from you," he confessed after a quiet moment. It was actually rather bloody unnerving to hear from your main enemy and nemesis that he was more or less quitting. "However, there is a small problem. The Prophecy."

"Nah, that's not a problem at all," Harry said dismissively. "The thing was self fulfilling and it's way too open for interpretation - and the only two people who can _make_ it a problem, are the two of us. All it really says that I _could_ kill, you give me a scar, I'm supposed to have some supposed power you don't and that one of us has to die."

Voldemort frowned. Most of that was new information to him. "Excuse me while I worry about this power you're supposed to have," he said. "And what do you mean one of has to die?"

"No, no, no, don't start analyzing. If you analyze it, you give it a meaning," Harry said, waving a finger at him while Crux undid his shoe laces and chewed on them. "And if it has a meaning, we ought to do something about it. No, no, shut up, not another word," he snapped, when the Dark Lord opened his mouth again. "No, I won't have it. Instead, let's say that my awesome unknown mysterious power was that of having a family, and possibly blowing magnificent spit bubbles when I was a baby and leave it at that. I mean, being orphan, raised in orphanage, you never knew power, so, it's a power I have, and you don't know. Then, let's say that _you already died_, which you already did when I was one year old. And tada, prophesy fulfilled."

Voldemort blinked. "I don't think it works -"

"Yes it bloody well works like that! Never mind the bloody prophesy," Harry snapped. "It's fulfilled, over with, done, bloody finished - and made by a bloody hoax too, right in front of bloody _Dumbledore _of all people, in a bloody _public pub_ where anyone could've bloody well heard it and thus rather debateable when it comes to it's accuracy and reliability."

The Dark Lord blinked again. "You think it's really that simple."

"Yes. And if it isn't, then the prophecy can just try and drag me from my cosy bungalow and see if I come without fighting," the young hero said, huffing. He shook his head. "Trust me, the prophecy isn't a problem. The problem _is people_."

"Oh? My people?" Voldemort asked, now flat toned.

"Mine, actually," Harry answered. "Some are still of the opinion that I ought to kill you for them, fight for them and possibly and most likely get killed for them. Hell, probably lot of your people think it too. It's kind of annoying," he leaned back a little, and reached to take out another broken piece of pottery. It looked like it had been a bedpan once. The young man gave it a annoyed look, and then turned it into raw clay. "I imagine at some point those that stay and still fight you will send people after me to demand me to come back - that is if I ever get to leave in the first place. Of course, if you mistreat your people bad enough, it might just as well be them who try and enlist me to do some Voldemort hunting. And I just as well would rather not bother with it."

"You make the wizards sound like children," Voldemort mused, looking down to Crux, who had at some point eaten Harry's whole shoe along with the laces.

"Aren't they? I really can't see a difference there," the hero answered, moistening the clay, kneading it for a moment, and then slamming it down to the wheel. Bit of watery dirt splashed to his neck. He didn't seem to mind. "Really makes me wonder why you bother."

"There is certain charm to it," Voldemort said, but he had to agree. Sometimes he didn't know why he bothered either. "What would you do if you were in my position?" he asked, in sudden flash of inspiration.

"Me in your place?" Harry asked, and then thought about it, his hands moving idly on the clay as he started to pedal the wheel. "Well, that's an interesting question. Let me see…" he thought about it for a moment, hands moving up and down and stretching the clay until it was longer than the vase had been. Obviously it would not be a bedpan. "I suppose I'd find a good person to take over, and take off. Find a nice beach somewhere. Probably exotic one."

"You're really in quite a mood, huh," Voldemort mused, interested. "Bugger all, much?"

"Yeah, pretty much. Bugger all. Twice," Harry agreed.

The Dark Lord nodded. It did seem like the hero of wizarding world needed a holiday. "So, let's see. If I promise not to try and kill you so that you can find yourself a nice exotic beach somewhere, and you promise to do same sans the nice exotic beach of course… that would be it, for us?"

"Well. I suppose," Harry mused, frowning.

"And that's really it?"

"Yes," the younger wizard nodded. "I think."

"And you really don't care that I killed your parents?" Voldemort asked, narrowing his eyes. "At all? No acts of revenge and vengeance before it, no avenger quests, nothing?"

"Well, I never really knew them so I don't really feel sad about them dying. That, too, was mostly Dumbledore's additions," Harry shrugged. "So there's nothing for me to go all revenge about. Well, except maybe for Sirius. If I encounter Bellatrix, I might lash out a little, if I get the chance."

"Hm, fair's fair," Voldemort mused, and then frowned. "So, some beach for you and UK for me? And that would be it?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Harry said, looking at the lengthening clay a bit worriedly. It was getting pretty high, and he didn't seem to know what was coming of it. "So? What do you think?"

xx

Written mostly because I wanted Harry to do some Pottery - and because I wanted to join the bandwagon of "Bugger all ! Harry" who quits his day job and retires from the hero business. My apologies for possible grammar errors


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